Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘I do not wish to speak of this, Priamus.’

  Priamus banked around the charred skeleton of what had once been a Chimera trooper carrier. His sword, chained to his back, rattled against his armour with the bike’s vibrations.

  ‘He did not die well.’

  ‘I said I have no desire to speak of this, brother. Leave me be.’

  ‘I only say this because if I were as close to him as you were, it would have grieved me, also. He died badly. An ugly, ugly death.’

  ‘He killed several before he fell.’

  ‘He did,’ the swordsman allowed, ‘but his death-wound was in the back. That would shame me beyond measure.’

  ‘Priamus,’ Nerovar’s voice was ice cold and heavy with both emotion and threat. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘You are impossible, Nero.’ Priamus revved his engine and accelerated away. ‘I try to sympathise with you. I try to connect, and you rebuke me. I will remember this, brother.’

  Nerovar said nothing. He just watched the road.

  The Jahannam Platform.

  Six hundred and nineteen workers stationed on an offshore industrial base. Its skyline was a mess of cranes and storage silos. Beneath it, only the deep of the ocean and the richness of the crude oil that could be refined into promethium.

  A new shadow entered the depths.

  Like a black wave under the water’s surface, it drifted closer to the support struts that held the gigantic platform above the water. Lesser shadows, fish-like and sharp, spilled ahead of the main darkness like rainfall falling from a storm cloud.

  The platform shuddered at first, as if shivering in the chill winds that always howled this far from shore.

  And then, with majestic slowness, it began to fall. A town-sized, multi-layered platform fell into the ocean, crashing down into the water. The ships around it began, one by one, to explode. Each one, once breached, sank alongside the Jahannam Platform.

  Six hundred and nineteen workers, and one thousand and twenty-one crewmembers from the ships died in the freezing waters over the course of the following three hours. The few men and women that managed to reach vox-casters shouted into their machines, little realising their voices were carrying no further.

  The platform was eventually submerged except for a fleet of floating detritus. The ocean no longer teemed with potential profit, but the scrap metal of destroyed enterprise.

  Helsreach heard nothing of this.

  The Sheol Platform.

  In a central spire, nestled between tall, stacked container silos, Technical Officer Nayra Racinov cast an annoyed look at her green screen, and the sudden fuzzy wash of distortion it was displaying for her.

  ‘You’re joking,’ she said to the screen. It replied with white noise.

  She thumped the thick glass with the bottom of her fist. It replied with slightly angrier white noise. Technical Officer Nayra Racinov decided not to try that again.

  ‘My screen’s just died,’ she called out to the rest of the office. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that the ‘rest of the office’, which usually consisted of an overweight ex-crane driver called Gruli who monitored the communications system, had gone for a mug of caffeine.

  She looked back at her console. Warning lights were flickering cheerily around the confused screen. One moment, the green wash showed a chaotic burst of incoming presences on the sonar. Hundreds of them. The next, it showed a clear ocean. And the next, nothing but distortion again.

  The room shuddered. The entire platform shuddered, as if in the grip of an earthquake.

  Nayra swallowed, watching the screen again. The presences under the water, hundreds of them, were back once again.

  She dived across the shaking room, hammering the vox-station’s transmit button with the heel of her hand.

  She managed to say ‘Helsreach, Helsreach, come in…’ before the world dropped out from under her and the second of the Valdez Oil Platforms was brought down, with its steel bones burning, bending and screaming, into the icy sea.

  The Lucifus Platform.

  The largest of the three offshore installations was manned by a permanent work crew population twice the size of those at Jahannam and Sheol. While they were powerless to prevent their own destruction, they at least saw it coming.

  Across the platform, sonar auspex readers were suddenly captured by the storm of distortion that had preceded the deaths of Sheol and Jahannam. Here, a fully-staffed control office reacted quicker, with a low-ranking tech-acolyte managing to restore a semblance of clarity to the screens.

  Technical Officer Marvek Kolovas was on the vox-network immediately, his gravelly voice carrying directly to the mainland.

  ‘Helsreach, this is Lucifus.’ Massive, repeat, massive incoming enemy fleet. At least three hundred submersibles. We can’t raise Sheol or Jahannam. Neither platform is responding. Helsreach? Helsreach, come in.’

  ‘Uh…’

  Kolovas blinked at the receiver in his hand. ‘Helsreach?’ he said again.

  ‘Uh, this is Dock Officer Nylien. You’re under attack?’

  ‘Throne, are you deaf, you stupid bastard? There’s a fleet of enemy submersibles launching all kinds of hell at our support gantries. We need rescue craft immediately. Airborne rescue craft. Lucifus Platform is going down.’

  ‘I… I…’

  ‘Helsreach? Helsreach? Do you hear me?’

  A new voice broke over the vox-channel. ‘This is Dockmaster Tomaz Maghernus. Helsreach hears and acknowledges.’

  Kolovas finally let out the breath he’d been holding. Around him, the world shook as it began to end.

  ‘Good luck, Lucifus,’ the dockmaster’s voice finished, a moment before the link went dead.

  ‘This is the situation,’ Colonel Sarren began.

  The Forthright Sector dockmaster’s office was, putting it politely, a pit. Maghernus was not a tidy man at the best of times, and a recent divorce wasn’t helping his state of cleanliness. The sizeable room was a hovel of old caffeine mugs that were growing furry mould-masses in their depths, and unfiled stacks of papers were scattered everywhere. Here and there were some of Maghernus’s cast-off clothing from the nights he’d slept in his office rather than go back to his depressing bachelor hab – and before that, back to the woman he’d taken to calling The Cheating Bitch.

  The Cheating Bitch was a memory now, and not a pleasant one. He found himself worrying against his will. Had she already died in the war? He wasn’t sure his bitterness stretched quite far enough to wish something like that.

  His dawdling thoughts were dragged back in line by the arrival of the Reclusiarch. In battered black war-plate, the knight stalked into the room, sending menials and Guard officers scurrying aside.

  ‘I was summoned.’ The words blasted rough from his helm’s vox-speakers.

  ‘Reclusiarch,’ Sarren nodded. The colonel’s bone-tiredness bled from him in a slow drip. In his weary majesty, he moved like he was underwater. The officers gathered around the room’s messy table, poring over a crinkled paper map of the city and the surrounding coast.

  Room was made at the table as Grimaldus approached.

  ‘Speak to me,’ he said.

  ‘This is the situation,’ Colonel Sarren began again. ‘Exactly fifty-four minutes ago, we received a distress call from the Lucifus Platform. They reported they were under attack by an overwhelming submersible fleet numbering at least three hundred enemy vessels.’

  The gathered officers and dock leaders variously swore, made notes on the map, or looked to Sarren to provide an answer to this latest development.

  ‘How long until they reach–’

  ‘…must move the reserve garrisons–’

  ‘…storm trooper battalions to assemble–’

  Cyria Tyro stood alongside the colonel. ‘This is what the bastards were doing in the southern Dead Lands. It’s why they touched down there. They were taking their landing ships to pieces and building this fleet.’

  ‘It’s worse than tha
t,’ Sarren gestured to the portable hololithic table with a control wand, zooming out from the city and showing a much wider spread of the southern coast of the Armageddon Secundus landmass.

  ‘Tempestus Hive,’ several officers muttered.

  Enemy runes flickered as they drew nearer to the other coastal hive. Almost as many as those bearing down on Helsreach.

  ‘They’re dead,’ Tyro said. ‘Tempestus will fall, no matter what we do. A hive half our size, and with half our defences.’

  ‘We’re all dead,’ a voice spoke out.

  ‘What did you say?’ Commissar Falkov sneered.

  ‘We have done all that can be done.’ The protests came from an overweight lieutenant in the uniform of the conscripted militia forces. He was calm, sanguine even, speaking with what he hoped was measured wisdom. ‘Throne, three hundred enemy vessels? My men are stationed at the docks, and we know what we can do there. But the defences are as thin as… as… Damn it, there are no defences there. We must evacuate the city, surely. We’ve done all we can.’

  Commissar Falkov’s dark stormcoat swished as he reached for his sidearm. He never got the chance to execute the lieutenant for cowardice. A snarling, immense blur of blackness sliced across the room. With a crash, the lieutenant was slammed back against the wall, held a metre off the ground, short legs kicking, as the Reclusiarch gripped his throat in one hand.

  ‘Thirty-six days, you wretched worm. Thirty-six days of defiance, and thousands upon thousands of heroes lie dead. You dare speak of retreat when the day finally comes for you to spill the enemy’s blood?’

  The lieutenant gagged as he was strangled. Colonel Sarren, Cyria Tyro and the other officers watched in silence. No one turned away.

  ‘Hnk. Agh. Ss.’ He fought for breath that wouldn’t come as he stared into the silver replica of the God-Emperor’s death mask. Grimaldus leaned closer, his skulled face leering, blocking out all other sight.

  ‘Where would you run, coward? Where would you hide that the Emperor would not see your shame and spit on your soul when your worthless life is finally at an end?’

  ‘Pl-Please.’

  ‘Do not shame yourself further by begging for a life you do not deserve.’ Grimaldus tensed his hand, his fingers snapping closed with wet snaps. In his grip, the lieutenant went into spasms, then thumped to the floor as the knight released his grip. The Reclusiarch strode back to the table, ignoring the fallen body.

  It took several seconds for conversation to resume. When it did, Falkov saluted the Reclusiarch. Grimaldus ignored it.

  Maghernus tried to make sense of the lines being drawn across the map showing troop disposition, but it might as well have been in another language to him. He cleared his throat and said, above the din, ‘Colonel.’

  ‘Dockmaster.’

  ‘What does this mean? In the simplest terms, please. All of these lines and numbers mean nothing to me.’

  It was Grimaldus who answered. The knight spoke low, staring down at the map with his helm’s unblinking scarlet eyes.

  ‘Today is the thirty-sixth day of the siege,’ the Templar said, ‘and unless we defend the docks against the tens of thousands of enemy that will arrive in under two hours, we will lose the city by nightfall.’

  Cyria Tyro nodded as she stared at the map. ‘We need to evacuate the dockworkers in the most efficient manner possible, allowing for the arrival of troops.’

  ‘No,’ Maghernus said, though no one was listening.

  ‘These avenues,’ Colonel Sarren pointed out, ‘are already clogged by inbound/outbound supply traffic. We will struggle to get all of the dock menials – no offence, Dockmaster – out in time. Let alone get troops in.’

  ‘No,’ Maghernus said again, louder this time. Still, no one paid him any attention.

  One of the Steel Legion majors present, a storm trooper set apart by his dark uniform and shoulder insignia, traced a finger along a central spine road leading from Hel’s Highway.’

  ‘Evacuate the drones down the other paths and leave the highway route clear. That’ll be enough to fill the central docks with trained bodies.’

  ‘That still leaves almost two-thirds of the dock districts,’ Sarren frowned, ‘with no defence except the garrisoned militia. And the militia will suffer from the fleeing dock menials being in their way.’

  ‘Hello?’ said Maghernus.

  ‘We can reroute the traffic through to these secondary veins,’ Tyro pointed out.

  ‘Troops would trickle in,’ Sarren nodded. ‘That might not be enough, but it may be the best we can ask for in the situation.’

  A sound emerged, machine-like and harsh, like the engine of a Chimera troop transport choking on the wrong fuel. One by one, heads turned to Grimaldus. The sound was emitted from his helm’s vocalisers. He was chuckling.

  ‘I believe,’ said the knight, ‘the dockmaster has something to say.’

  All heads turned to Maghernus.

  ‘Arm us,’ he said.

  Colonel Sarren closed his eyes. The others watched the dockmaster, unsure if they had heard correctly. Maghernus continued, as the silence spread out, ‘There are over thirty-nine thousand of us on those docks – and that’s just the workers, not including the militia. If you need time, arm us. We’ll give you the time.’

  The storm trooper major snorted. ‘You’ll be dead in an hour. All of you.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Maghernus. ‘But we were never going to win this war, were we?’

  The major wasn’t done, and his voice had less of a sneer now. ‘Brave, but insane. If we allow the enemy to butcher the dockworker forces, the city won’t be able to function for decades after this war. We’re fighting to preserve our way of life, not just survive.’

  ‘Let us focus,’ Sarren opened his eyes, ‘on surviving first. The fact remains that the majority of the Steel Legion cannot be moved. They are holding the city, and pulling them back from their positions will see the city fall as surely as if we leave the docks undefended. Invigilata and the militia can’t hold everything.’

  ‘There’s little choice,’ said Tyro. ‘The dockworkers will die unsupported.’

  ‘Arm them first,’ Grimaldus said, his vox-voice heavy with finality. ‘Then argue how long they have left to live.’

  ‘Very well. Our course is clear.’ Colonel Sarren cleared his throat. ‘Dockmaster. I thank you.’

  ‘We’ll fight like… like… We’ll fight damn hard, colonel. Just don’t take too long getting the troops to back us up.’

  ‘We have immense stockpiles of materiel in the dock districts.’ The colonel nodded to Cyria Tyro. ‘You heard the Reclusiarch. Arm them.’

  She saluted with a grim smile, and left the table.

  ‘We can hold,’ Sarren told everyone that remained. ‘After all we have done, I refuse to believe this will be the treacherous blow that breaks our back. We can hold. Major Krivus, the movement of storm trooper squads to the docks is already under way, but I need you to take personal command of that process immediately. Grav-chute them in if you have to. Drop them from the Valkyries that remain. Every rifle counts.’

  The major saluted, and moved out of the office with all the grace and speed his bulky carapace armour allowed.

  ‘The civilians,’ Tyro murmured, staring at the hololithic. Almost all of the city’s reinforced shelters were situated – and sealed – within and beneath the docks district. Sixty per cent of the hive’s population, crowded in civilian shelter bunkers, now no longer away from the front lines. ‘We can’t have that many people left in the direct line of fire.’

  ‘No? We can’t release them onto the streets.’ Sarren shook his head. ‘There is nowhere for them to run, and the panic would choke the byways, preventing the Steel Legion ever reaching the docks. They are as safe as they can be in their shelters.’

  ‘The beasts will tear down those shelters,’ Tyro argued.

  ‘Yes, they will. Nothing can be done now.’ Sarren would not be deterred. ‘There will be no evacuation. We c
an’t arm them in time, and we can’t protect them if they leave the shelters. They will do nothing but die in the streets and clog the veins of reinforcements.’

  Tyro didn’t raise another objection. She knew he was right.

  Sarren continued, ‘I need insurgency walkers and light armour battalions riding in from the tertiary arterial roads here, here, here and here. Sentinels, my friends. Hellhounds and Sentinels. Everything we can muster.’ More officers left the table.

  ‘Reclusiarch.’

  ‘Colonel.’

  ‘You know what I am going to ask of you. There is only one way we will survive this assault long enough to flood the docks with tried and tested troops. I cannot order you, but I would ask it nevertheless.’

  ‘There is no need to ask. My knights will deploy from our remaining gunships. We will stand with the civilians. We will hold the docks.’

  ‘My thanks, Reclusiarch. Now, we are as ready as it is possible to be, given the nature of this unwelcome surprise. We are, however, placing a great deal of pressure on Invigilata and the bulk of the Imperial Guard. The city will bleed while we divert our elite infantry to the docks, and this fight… It’ll take days. At best.’

  ‘Let Invigilata hold the city,’ Grimaldus said, gesturing to the map with a black gauntlet. ‘Let the Steel Legion stand with them. Focus on what matters in the here and now.’

  ‘No grand speech? I’m almost disappointed.’

  ‘No speech.’ The Templar was already stalking from the room. ‘Not for you. You won’t be dying this day. I save my words for those who will.’

  Chapter XIV

  The Docks

  They came as the sun began its downward arc in the sky.

  The Helsreach docks took up almost a third of the hive’s perimeter. Thousands of uninspiring warehouses and harbour office towers stood watch over an expansive bay which featured an endless number of quays and piers that stabbed out into the sloshing, filthy greyish water.

  The air across the entire world might have always reeked of something faintly sulphuric, but here – at the heart of Helsreach’s industry – the reek bordered on petrochemically unhealthy. It only took an hour for a person’s clothes and hair to become saturated with the greasy, heavy stink of spilled oil and ammoniac seawater. Lifers, the dockworkers who spent their entire careers here, hacked up a fair share of blackness when they hawked and spat. Respiratory tumours were the second-largest cause of death among the populace, only behind industrial accidents by a small margin.